


Antifogmatic

by BebopHeadshop



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25930936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BebopHeadshop/pseuds/BebopHeadshop
Summary: antifogmatic. Noun. (plural antifogmatics) An alcoholic drink taken in the morning to brace oneself before going out into bad weather.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Kudos: 16





	Antifogmatic

**Author's Note:**

> cw // Alcohol abuse, references to suicide/suicidal ideation, blood/violence/gore in a battle scene
> 
> There aren't any descriptions/mentions of an actual suicide. I'd just rather be liberal with tagging when it comes topics like these.
> 
> So please mind the tags.

Marianne’s hand jutted forward, capturing Hilda’s moan within her palm before it spilled past her kiss-bitten lips, through the fabric of the tent, and to the ears of everyone in the camp. Hilda admired it, Marianne’s desire to be discreet. Even when she was doing everything in her power to reduce Hilda to a writhing mess. A hitched chuckle batted against Marianne’s palm, just as breathy and damp as the moan it had replaced.

But the laugh was cut off by a choked gasp as Marianne’s fingers bent just slightly, finding that place inside Hilda that strangled her breath and made her see stars. Hilda’s hips jutted up frantically to meet the pace of the fingers opening her up as Marianne’s palm pressed more firmly against Hilda’s lips.

Hilda mouthed Marianne’s name against her wet palm, quiet whimpers that soon erupted into a scream. Her body tensed and flexed as the surge of pleasure pulled her muscles taut. Marianne’s fingers kept their rhythm, pushing in and out as Hilda’s orgasm ebbed and flowed. 

Slowly, slowly the tension eased out of each muscle, the sparks replaced by a warmth that settled over Hilda’s body, kneading her limbs until they turned pliable and loose. She settled her hips back down onto the floor of the tent, a pleasant wetness trickling out of her and tickling her skin as Marianne removed her fingers.

When Hilda's eyes slowly fluttered open again she saw Marianne looking down at her, a smile pushing up against her rosy cheeks. She moved her hand from Hilda’s mouth, gliding her fingers across Hilda’s cheek and behind her head. Marianne tangled her fingers in the pink locks before bringing her lips down to hers. Hilda prodded at her soft lips with her tongue, jutting at them sloppily. Nevertheless Marianne responded, parting her lips and letting Hilda’s tongue slide in. Hilda idly wondered if Marianne was still able to taste herself on Hilda’s tongue or if she had already swallowed the last of it down with her final moans.

Hilda’s lips had just slid from Marianne’s and begun to dip along her jaw and neck when Marianne pulled back. She gave Hilda another small smile before shuffling along the floor and beginning to pick up the blue and gold clothes interspersed among their pink and black counterparts.

As Marianne began to redress, Hilda finally felt the cold begin to settle on her skin. The pleasant numb of sex was replaced by the dreary fog that settled over her mind as her thoughts shifted from the swell of Marianne’s breasts to the mundanity that waited just outside the tent.

Hilda knew why Marianne came to her tent every night, why she always wandered in just as the camp began to settle. It reminded her what to fight for, she admitted one night as they had laid curled up together. But it was never long enough for them to get comfortable. Eventually one of them always had to leave to deal with something or other with the war around them. 

Well, Marianne was always the one to leave. Hilda watched as she carefully laced and buttoned her dress, her delicate fingers running down her body and smoothing the creases out of the fabric. She was the responsible one.

Hilda pushed herself up onto her elbows and sat up, crawling to the little bag she kept beside her cot. Marianne eyed her as she dug in the satchel, only breaking eye contact when she slipped her over-gown over her head.

Hilda dug around in the satchel until she heard the satisfying clink of her nails against glass. She pulled the bottle from her bag and took a swig. The heat she’d been missing returned to her body as soon as the alcohol touched her throat. The warmth pooled in her stomach and then trailed lower, tingling pleasantly between her legs.

She took a second sip, indulged in a third, and was dipping her head back for a fourth when Marianne moved to her side, reaching for the bottle.

“No more,” Marianne said, her thin fingers hovering over the glass. “Please.”

Hilda smiled. “That’s not enough to slow me down.”

Marianne frowned. Hilda rolled her eyes, slipping the bottle back into the satchel before pressing a peck against Marianne’s cheek. 

“No more,” Hilda repeated with a smile.

Marianne’s eyes stayed fixed on the satchel until she turned her attention back to the mirror Hilda kept in her tent. In its reflection Hilda could still see Marianne’s eyes shifting nervously, barely watching her fingers as they fumbled to fix the braids that Hilda had mussed. 

Hilda knew why Marianne didn’t partake, why she avoided alcohol almost entirely. It reminded her of everything she wanted to die for, the numbness bringing her back to the worst moments of her life. Marianne had admitted as much one night when Hilda had managed to coax a drink into her while they sat on the pier at Garreg Mach.

Hilda moved to Marianne’s side. She removed one of Marianne’s hands from the tangle of her braids, bringing it to her lips and pressing small kisses along each knuckle until Marianne’s reflection smiled. A little giggle escaped her when Hilda’s tongue met her final knuckle instead of her lips. Hilda winked, returning her hand to her side with a small smile.

“See you tonight?”

“Yes,” Marianne replied. “So stay safe. And be careful.” 

Then Marianne pulled away, exiting the tent and leaving only the whisper of her voice behind. 

Hilda sighed, plopping back onto the floor. As soon as she left the tent the spell would break completely. The lingering sensation of Marianne’s skin against her own would be replaced completely by the harsh chill that only grew more brutal with each passing day. It was getting harder and harder to keep the chill out of her bones, even when Marianne’s body was pressed snugly against hers.

Hilda could already hear the tell-tale signs that the camp was waking up: hustling footsteps, the sounds of rustling fabric as people began to pack up. Preparing to rush off to the battle that awaited them a few miles west, bloody their hands, set up camp, and then start the process all over again. On and on and on it would go, each day blending into the next and just as uneventful as the one before it. 

Hilda began to dress, collecting her garments from the floor. The longer she waited, the higher the likelihood that Lorenz would barge in and lecture her about how long they still needed to march to stay on Claude’s schedule. At least today there was guaranteed to be a battle. And if she was lucky, she might end up with a scratch this time. Proof that something had changed.

When Hilda finally moved the flaps of the tent and stepped outside, she was immediately enveloped by fog, its cold droplets clinging to her skin.

...

The axe slammed hard into the soldier’s shoulder. The impact rattled up Hilda's arms, confirming that she had definitely hit bone. His hot blood splattered against her face, the droplets clinging to her skin. She pulled the axe from his body, a new spray of blood wetting her as the soldier collapsed to the ground.

And just as quickly as the warmth had hit her face it began to cool, chilled by the stagnant air that hung heavy around the battlefield. She paused for a moment, leaning against her axe as she caught her breath. 

The body of the enemy soldier still writhed beneath her on the ground, the gash in his shoulder leaking blood that began to pool around him. The crimson flowed over the ground, dividing into webbing currents. It reminded Hilda of the painting of Derdriu that Ignatz was working on before they had left Garreg Mach for the current battle. The one with the aqueducts crawling through the city. Or was that Enbarr? She couldn’t really recall, and trying to remember Ignatz's spiel from when he showed it to everyone made her head ache.

The sound of screeching metal drew her attention back to the battle before her. Sparks from the collisions of steel against steel, of weapons on armor alighted the field around her. She spotted a group of enemy soldiers advancing toward her. They deflected the volleys of arrows that flew from somewhere behind her. But the arrows still managed to slow their pursuit, giving her more time to recover.

It was getting darker, the red blood at her feet appearing black in the dimming light. Or maybe it was just mixing in with the dirt now. Hilda lifted her head as she heard shouting erupt in front of her. The group of enemy soldiers had been intercepted by Leonie’s battalion. Hilda yawned, hoisting her axe over her shoulder as she headed toward the colliding forces. 

She didn’t know why she did this, why she kept marching forward and prolonging the mundanity. Maybe she was waiting for the day when this was all over, when Claude would achieve his goals. The day when she’d be done with this business of dirt and blood and could fuck Marianne on her own schedule. The thought threatened to make her smile as her axe slammed repeatedly into the man before her, his helmet doing little to shield him from the onslaught. He let out a choked gasp when the axe finally broke though, splitting the metal and opening up his skull. His body crumpled to the ground, the rush of blood from his head pulling his eyes shut as it flowed down.

She stepped over the body, the thickening fog at her feet already obscuring his face.

The chill air settled deep in her bones.

_Damn, I could use a drink._

**Author's Note:**

>  **antifogmatic**. Noun. (plural antifogmatics) Also a dope ass album by The Punch Brothers.
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Catatune) if you want to chat, although fair warning I post a lot more art than fic.


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